


Show Me Your Soul

by Luna_Hart



Category: Captain America (Movies), His Dark Materials - Philip Pullman, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Golden Compass (2007)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Daemons, Everyone Needs A Hug, Evil Alexander Pierce, Getting Together, HYDRA Husbands, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Memories, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Slow Burn, good guy Brock Rumlow, good guy Jack Rollins, protective Brock Rumlow
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-16
Updated: 2020-03-16
Packaged: 2021-02-28 22:01:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,003
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23174341
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Luna_Hart/pseuds/Luna_Hart
Summary: "He was tall, almost a full head taller then Brock. Broad shoulders and a long nose that had seen the business end of a fist more than once. He also didn't seem to have a daemon."The evolving relationship between Brock Rumlow and Jack Rollins, as told from their first meeting till the fall of Shield.
Relationships: Jack Rollins/Brock Rumlow
Comments: 6
Kudos: 42





	Show Me Your Soul

Brock woke but didn’t open his eyes. If he didn’t, he could hold onto his dreams a little longer. The sunshine that always streamed through the south facing bedroom window felt warm on his face. The sheets were soft against his skin and a heavy arm was snug around his waist. He smothered a smile as he felt Jack’s rumbling snore vibrating against his back. He felt his lover’s breath brush warm against the back of his neck and he clung to it for a long as he could.

But like all good things, this too faded and Brock opened his eyes to a cold steel wall. He was sleeping on a narrow squeaky cot, the biosensors in his prison jumpsuit were itching his skin, and Jack was dead.

He threw his legs over the edge of the cot and stood with a sigh. He went through the motions. Sit ups, push ups, dips from the edge of the bed. Repeat. From the floor he could see Althea, curled in a furry ball under the bed. He’d stopped trying to reach her after the first day they’d been imprisoned. She only growled whenever he tried, hate in her eyes.

It was an unsettling thing, to be hated by ones own daemon. Brock was used to being hated. It came with the territory. He’d been born on the wrong side of the city to a mother who had more tracks in her arms than grand central station. He had been ambitious, climbing the ranks of both Hydra and Shield, pushing out older more experienced men. He had been a double agent. So he was used to being hated but he’d always had Althea.

Not anymore it seemed.

She hated him for making the choices that lead them down this path. She’d warned him about Hydra. She’d had a bad feeling from the beginning but he didn’t listen. All he saw was an opportunity so he took it and before long he was in too deep. At least it had been Shield that had taken them in the end. He’d heard the rumours that Hydra had begun cleaning house right before the Helicarriers fell. He knew that Hydra had acquired a machine from the Russians that would strip a man from his daemon. He’d seen the results, the muttering messes barely human that had been left behind. Had worked with the Asset, whose was cold and merciless yet vacant as a doll. Brock shoved down a shiver.

Perhaps it was all just scare tactics. Perhaps the Asset was just a man without a soul. A monster wrapped in human skin. Perhaps he had witch-blood and Pierce had his daemon locked away somewhere. Perhaps not. He hadn’t been prepared to chance it. So he’d been a good little soldier and kept them safe for as long as he could.

He finished his sit ups and then flopped down on his back, staring at the ceiling. Sweat dripped from the back of his neck and cooled across his upper lip. He turned his head, staring at the dark shadow under the bed. Hesitantly, he reached out his arm. His fingers could just reach her and he brushed them gently over the fur that covered her spine. He felt her muscles flinch under his touch and a warning growl ripped harshly from her throat. Her head whipped back to glare at him over her shoulder, the metal of the muzzle locked around her snout glinting faintly.He let his hand fall but he kept it on the floor close to her. He held her hot gaze, a stinging sensation gathering in the corners of his eyes.

“I miss him too,” he whispered.

***************************

The first time Brock saw him was at a Shield meet and greet for new recruits. Brock had been a part of Shield for years by that point. He’d moved steadily up through the ranks to be where he was, second in command of Strike Team Alpha. And as the second in command of the top team of an already elite unit, there was no way he could dodge this event. Oh, he had tried. He’d even been successful before. His commander had gotten so fed up with those past excuses that he’d threatened him with disciplinary action if he didn’t show.

So here he was; leaning in the far corner partially hidden behind a potted plant, sparkling water in hand and desperately wishing it was something stronger. Althea was pressed protectively against his shins, curling her lip silently at anyone who got too close. She was an intimidating sight, all sharp edges and sleek fur. So his scowl kept most of the eager green recruits from brown nosing and Althea kept the braver ones away. He just had to put in a long enough appearance to appease Commander Whitmore and then he could go home. Then he saw him.

He was on the outskirts too, although not quite so obviously trying to hide as Brock was. He was lounging against the opposite wall by the window. Out in the open but oozing a dangerous air that had everyone giving him a wide birth. He was tall, almost a full head taller then Brock. Broad shoulders and a long nose that had seen the business end of a fist more than once. He also didn’t seem to have a daemon.

Brock frowned, casting his eyes around the ground and up to the rafter beams above him but he couldn’t spot it. It was possible the man’s daemon was small, something that would fit in a pocket or in the collar of his dress shirt. It just would be odd. Men like them almost always ended up with larger daemons; animals who could back them in a fight. Wolves, panthers, various large breeds of dogs. Althea had tried a various number of dogs and wolf half-breeds before settling on her Doberman form.Maybe he was like Romanoff, whose daemon was never seen and whose reputation was so infamous that everyone whispered that she had been born without one. Brock didn’t believe it but she had been a Red Room brat. He knew the Russians could split people from their daemons. It was where Hydra had gotten the technology from.

Before Brock’s mind could spiral down that rabbit hole, the shadow by the man’s ankle looked at him with crystalline blue eyes and blinked. Brock blinked back. The back of his neck prickled as it did when he knew someone was watching him. His eyes flicked up to find the other man staring back at him, a curious spark in what looked like hazel eyes. Brock looked away quickly, a heat blooming in his gut for being caught. He could practically feel Althea roll her eyes.

He glanced back. He couldn’t help it. He glanced back and just in time to see the amused smirk on the man’s face too. Then he turned and headed towards the exit, the shadow clinging close to his ankles.

***************************

He wouldn’t officially meet Jack Rollins until three months later, in a burned out building in the middle of nowhere. One Strike team had already been completely obliterated by an IED; the two remaining teams were scattered about just trying to stay alive long enough for backup to arrive. Static crackled in his ear as Whitemore came in telling them that the jets were ten minutes out. Brock cursed under his breath, hunching down as artillery fire cracked harshly into the wall behind him. Althea flattened her ears with a whine from her position between his legs.

With an unspoken word between them, they waited for the next pause in the bombardment and then they made a break for it. They wove through debris as smooth as water, Althea darting out from between his legs to latch her strong jaws into the arm of a target who tried to sneak up on Brock from behind. Her shoulder muscles bunched as she dragged the man’s weapon down to the ground. Bullets rattled into the dirt inches from her paws. Brock levelled his own weapon and dropped the man a breath later. Unruffled, Althea sprang back to his side and together they dashed for the cover of the east door into the warehouse.

They ducked around the corner. Half of the far wall was gone along with half the ceiling. It wasn’t great cover but it would do for a minute. Kevlar scraped against brick as Brock fell back against the wall with a gasp. Althea darted out, doing a quick scout of the crumbling room while Brock caught his breath. Her soft woof caught his attention a moment later. He could see her hindquarters and tail from behind a rough plastered column covered in old graffiti. A strange hissing sound followed, followed by Althea’s worried whine.

Brock rounded the column to find Althea facing off with what at first glance looked like a large black cat. On further inspection Brock saw it was a fox, with crystalline blue eyes and silver streaked across her muzzle and tail. It was standing protectively in front of her human who was passed out against the wall. A man with slicked back hair and a strong jawline. Another man lay a few feet away, who Brock recognized as one of the pirates they were currently engaged with. His throat had been slit.

Brock took a few hurried steps forward, only to pull up short as the fox sprang forward with a shrieking snarl.“Whoah, easy,” he murmured. He crouched down slowly, raising both his hands to show them empty. “We’re on the same side here, pipsqueak,” he said. “So unless you’ve got opposable thumbs or some shit, you’re gonna have to let us help.”The fox stared at him like she was somehow weighing his soul, but she stepped aside. Brock didn’t waste a moment. He got the man lying down and began assessing the damage. Blood stained the man’s shoulder, soaking down the bicep in a dark red stain. More blood was pooled around the man’s hip, soaking through the hastily tied bandage that wrapped low around the soldier’s abdomen.

“Got a man down, east corner of the complex.” Brock cursed under his breath as a mortar blew dust and shrapnel through the blasted out windows, raining debris down over their heads. He hunkered down over the unconscious man, shielding him as best he could. They couldn’t stay here.“Okay, big guy. Up you go,” he sighed as he slung his rifle behind his back and heaved the unconscious man up over his shoulders. “Christ, you’re heavy,” he panted, pulling his sidearm from its holster and heading towards the back exit. He wove them through the building before finding an out of the way storage room. “Where the fuck is that evac?” Brock spat as he kicked the door shut behind them.

“Five minutes,” crackled the reply over comms. Five minutes. He could keep them alive for five minutes. First, stop the bleeding. Brock quickly wrapped another dressing over the already soaked bandage around the man’s abdomen and quickly moved onto the shoulder injury.

His hands had barely brushed fabric when cold metal pressed against his throat and he froze. A hand was gripping the front of his vest, pulling him against the deadly kiss of the massive bowie knife he hadn’t even felt the man palm. “Think very carefully about your next words,” a gravelly voice whispered, almost conversationally. As if they were just having a coffee at a fucking cafe instead of this sandy hellhole. Brock’s gaze flicked down, to eyes that now he was closer were more green than hazel. A little bright with the sharp edge of pain but they were clear and focused on Brock.

“I’m Strike Alpha,” he spat, more irritated at himself for letting an injured man get the jump on him. “And I’m trying to stop your stupid ass from bleeding out so if you could take it down a notch here Rambo, it’d be appreciated.”

The man’s lips twitched, amusement flickering across his face. “Don’t remember getting shot in the ass. That’s embarrassing,” the man murmured, his grip on Brock not loosening an inch.

“You got shot in the shoulder and side,” sneered Brock through gritted teeth. “Seems like you passed out halfway through patching yourself up.” The man hummed softly like it made perfect sense.

“Remember Lis yelling at me a bunch than nothing until you started poking at me.”

“Excuse me for giving a shit,” scowled Brock.

The man chuckled, low and soft-like. The sound sent a tingle up Brock’s spine. “Jack Rollins from Charlie team,” the man said, finally letting Brock go. “Sorry for bleeding all over you.”

“Brock Rumlow. Don’t worry, I’ll send you the dry-cleaning bill. Now, shut up and let me wrap your shoulder.”

“This is a bad idea,” Brock gasped, fingers scrabbling for purchase on well, anything really. He felt more than heard Jack’s answering hum that rumbled deep in the man’s chest as he used his larger body to bracket Brock against the metal shelves at the back of the medial storage closet. His hands were heavy against Brock’s hips, his stubble rasping against Brock’s neck as teeth worried at the base of his shoulder. “Seriously, this is a bad idea,” he tried again. His hands slide across the man’s back, mindful of the hole in Jack’s shoulder and the hole in his side that had only been stitched closed not forty minutes ago.

“You worry too much,” Jack whispered, breath ghosting against the shell of Brock’s ear.

Brock shivered, swallowing around the lump that rose in his throat at the sensation. “I’m not the one who has bullet holes in his body,” he snapped but his tone wavered as Jack’s fingers started pulling his shirt up from under his belt.

“I know my limits,” Jack smirked. Brock opened his mouth to protest but all that came out was a choked off groan as the bigger man slotted a thigh in-between his legs and rocked up against him. “Let’s see if we can’t find yours,” murmured Jack and the last of Brock’s reservations dried up on his tongue.

Jack left first, after. He slipped into the hallway with no a hair out of place, leaving Brock feeling dishevelled and off balance. Althea nosed her way inside before the door shut, watching him with a wary eye. He ignored her at first. He swiped a pack of antiseptic wipes and dropped down onto a stack of boxes in the corner. He glared at her as he ripped open one of the package and started cleaning the splits in his knuckles left over from the mission. “What?” He snapped after a moment, unable to take her silent stare any longer.

“It reeks like a back alley brothel in here,” she sniffed, sitting a few feet away with her tail curled primly around her paws.

“Not the first time I’ve let off some steam in a storage closet post mission,” he grumbled defensively. “You should be used to it by now.” He scrubbed roughly at the road rash on the heel of his left hand, relishing in the sting from the alcohol. “What?!”

“This one’s different.”

“How, pray tell?”

“I don’t know yet,” she replied, maddeningly vague as always. “But I think he could be good for you.”

Brock snorted. “Well I hate to break it to you, princess, but this was just a one time thing. Not gonna happen again.”

***************************

“Not gonna happen again, hmm?” Althea said smugly as Brock stumbled out of the bedroom at six am because his body wouldn’t let him sleep any later anymore, blurry-eyed and looking thoroughly fucked in more than one way.

“Shut up,” he grumbled, padding into the kitchen and blindly stabbing at the super fancy espresso maker Jack had in his kitchen like it had insulted his mother.

***************************

Brock was freaking out.

It didn’t look like he was. He just seemed like he was staring really intently at the two mugs of coffee sitting in front of him. On the inside, Brock was freaking out. It had been four months since he’d met Jack and over that short span of time, the younger man had somehow wormed his way into Brock’s life. It was different from anything Brock had allowed himself to have in the past. Sure, they had sex. They had really good sex and had it often but now it was more than that. Sure, they fucked in utility closets and helicarrier bathrooms but now they also had sex in Brock’s bedroom and he’d wake up the next morning with Jack sprawled out and snoring beside him.

The first time Brock had woken up beside Jack, he was halfway out the door before he realized they were in his apartment. So he’d went back to bed and tried to remember how to breath for ten minutes until Jack woke up. He’d blinked sleepily at Brock, a small smile tugging at his lips as he yawned through a “Good morning,” and Brock forgot what oxygen was altogether.

Then it happened again. Then again and again and now it was four months later. It was still happening and Brock was having a panic attack because he’d added hazelnut coffee creamer to one of the coffees. It was in his fridge even though he didn’t drink the stuff. Now he was spiralling because he also knew that Jack had a toothbrush in the bathroom and there were two razors in the shower and oh god, even the shirt Brock was wearing wasn’t his. It was Jack’s, the grey one that was stupidly soft and smelled like him and Brock knew Jack hadn’t been wearing it last night so that meant it had been left it here the last time and that meant that—

“I can hear you panicking from here,” came the annoyed grumble from across the living room, making Brock startle and slosh coffee across the counter. “You always do this,” Althea said reproachfully as he glared across the living room to where she was curled up on the couch. Jack’s fox daemon Lis was a small furry knot on the other end. “Stop overthinking it and let yourself be happy for once,” she added with a yawn.

Brock’s mouth opened and then closed, mind blank and struggling. Althea snorted rudely and went back to sleep, tucking her nose under her paws. A soft creak had his head whipping back around and there was Jack, wearing nothing but black briefs. His hair was soft and tousled, getting even wavier as the younger man dragged restless fingers through it.

He was fifteen-year-old Brock’s wet dream, the one he’d kept hidden under the mattress because his alcoholic homophobic uncle could never find out. He was every single one-night stand Brock had said he’d call back and then didn’t because Don’t Ask Don’t Tell was a bitch but the military was all he had. He was everything Brock had never allowed himself to believe he could have standing in front of him with sex-tousled hair and a lopsided smirk that had butterflies crawling up into his throat.

“Morning,” yawned Jack as he crossed into the kitchen and Brock couldn’t decide if he wanted to melt into the floor or bolt out the door. Jack’s sleepy eyes sharpened as he got closer, darkening with concern as his eyes focused in on Brock’s face. “Everything okay?” He asked gently.

“Yeah, I’m fine. Coffee?” Brock said, pointing stupidly at the cup by his hip.

Jack gave him a look like he knew Brock was blatantly deflecting but he let him have it. He leaned into Brock’s space, crowding closer than strictly necessary in order to reach the coffee. “Thanks,” he murmured, his bicep brushed against Brock’s arm as he leaned against the counter, making no move to take the coffee.

“I already added creamer,” Brock choked out.

“I see that,” Jack murmured. “You sure everything’s okay?”

Brock grimaced. Perceptive bastard. Why couldn’t Jack he as thick as the brick shithouse he’d clearly modelled his body after. Oh no, Jack had to be one of the most preceptive people Brock had ever met along with muscles that could rival Captain America himself. He was really good a reading people and apparently Brock was an open book.

“Said I’m fine,” Brock said stiffly but he couldn’t bring himself to meet the taller man’s eyes. He could feel Jack assessing him, weighing him. He knew he’d be found wanting. He always was. Three months was about the tipping point in every relationship he’d ever had. It was the point where the other person finally saw under the outer walls and didn’t like what they found. The fact he’d made it to four months with Jack was nothing shy of a miracle.

“Okay,” murmured Jack.

Then hands were on Brock’s arms and he was pulled against a muscular chest. Strong arms wrapped around his shoulders, holding him close. Brock froze, hands hovering above Jack’s ribs as he breathed in fresh cotton and something vaguely pine. “W-what are you doing?” He asked warily, words muffled slightly against the taller man’s shoulder.

“Giving you a hug,” was the simple reply.

“Why?”

Brock felt Jack freeze. Clearly that was the wrong question to ask and in hind sight, of course it was. What kinda fucked up person questioned the reason behind a hug? Well, clearly that kind of person was Brock. He felt Jack sigh and the arms around his shoulders tightened minutely. He placed his hands on the man’s sides on reflex, almost returning the embrace but not quite. “Do you want to talk about it?” The taller man asked gently but Brock just shook his head.

“I’m fine,” he said again because maybe if he says it enough, Jack will believe it. Maybe Brock will even believe it himself.

“Okay.”

Just like that Jack dropped it. He didn’t push Brock to talk. He didn’t question further. He just continued to hold him and he didn’t let go. Finally something in Brock’s chest released and he relaxed into the embrace. He wrapped his arms firmly around Jack’s middle, a hair shy of desperate. Fingers slid through his hair, a big hand cupping the back of his skull in response. Brock closed his eyes and breathed with the bigger man, allowing himself to fully relax for the first time in a long time. “Told you he’d be good for you,” a smug voice called out sleepily from across the room.

“Shut up,” Brock muttered against Jack’s muscular shoulder. Jack grunted a questioning noise. “Althea. Nosy bitch,” he griped, prompting an equally rude response from the direction of the fireplace. He felt Jack’s amusement vibrate through his chest.

“Lis has been giving me an earful too,” he chuckled. “Come on, let’s go back to bed,” he added, pressing a quick kiss against Brock’s temple before pulling away to pick up the mugs. “I have a few ideas of how to keep them out of our heads,” he added with a lewd wink that had Brock’s cheeks burning because Jack had a way of getting under his skin, curse him.

***************************

“This going to be a problem?” Brock asked, glancing up at the younger man over the transfer papers that would put Jack in direct subordination to him. They’d skirted the edge of it before but with Jack on the same team as him changed things. Brock was up for a promotion with Commander Whitmore up for retirement and Fury wanted Jack for Strike Alpha’s second.

“It won’t be a problem unless we make it one,” Jack said with a shrug, toying with the stem of his apple. They were sat at the little cafe around the corner from the Triskellion because Brock was paranoid and didn’t trust that his office wasn’t bugged. “You gonna make it a problem?” The younger man asked when Brock didn’t say anything. After a moment, Jack sighed and set the apple aside. He leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees like he did when he had something serious to talk about. “Look, I know you’re a little gun shy. Figuratively speaking,” Jack added before Brock could interrupt. “But it’s been six months and I’m still here. I’m not going anywhere. So I need to know if you’re in this too.”

Brock opened his mouth but nothing came out. He wanted to say yes but the word stuck in his throat and wouldn’t come out. “Don’t be an idiot,” Althea said reproachfully from her spot underneath the table. Brock ignored her but as usual her words slipped under his skin and refused to come out.

“I’m not going to make it a problem,” he replied, eyes locked on the cracked tabletop. It was as close to admitting that he wanted this too as he could come right now. It seemed enough for Jack though, who smiled like Brock had just given him the world. And damn, if that didn’t make Brock’s insides flip.

***************************

“What’s this from?” Brock asked as he traced the scar around the younger man’s jaw with careful fingers. He watched Jack carefully as he did. He looked relaxed, muscles loose with his head pillowed on Brock’s bicep, but with Jack it was hard to tell. They were close enough, noses almost brushing, that Brock could see the way Jack’s pupils dilated just a little at the question.

“Car accident,” was all Jack said, in a tone that shut down all other followup questions.

***************************

“Did you…have…uh, when did you…,” Brock fumbled, staring at the bookcase in front of him. Jack hummed in question from his perch in the armchair by the window. He had a book in hand like always, Lis curled in a tight ball in his lap. Althea was sprawled by his feet, nose twitching in her sleep.

“You wanna try that sentence again?” Jack drawled.

“These aren’t mine,” accused Brock, eyeing the dozen or so books that ranged from poetry to old English literature stuffed between helicarrier technical manuals and a cookbook from his sister that Brock had never opened. Some of the books were in Polish and others in French, two languages that Brock didn’t speak let alone read.

“No, they’re not,” replied Jack calmly and in the tone that told Brock the man was only half paying attention to him. Brock threw a look over his shoulder, glaring at the younger man who seemed to be pointedly ignoring him. He huffed, a sharp report on his tongue but it died quickly as he caught sight of the other stack of books not his on the coffee table.

Brock took mental stock. There was a record player Brock hadn’t bought on a stand in the corner, a milk crate of records on the floor beside it. Two of the five jacket hanging in the hallway weren’t his either. He knew there were two razors in the shower and a woodsy aftershave Brock didn’t use. There were clothes too big for him hanging in his closet, shoes other than combat boots and gym sneakers in the hall closet. There was actual matching cutlery in the kitchen drawers and an honest-to-god crockpot on the counter which was currently steaming with some Polish stew Jack wanted to try and—

“Did…did you move in without me noticing?” He exclaimed.

Althea snorted but it could have just been a snore as she didn’t open her eyes. Lis opened one blue eye and fixed him with that penetrating stare before she tucked her nose under her tail. Jack didn’t look up from his book but the corner of his mouth twitched upwards. “Considering I haven’t been back to my apartment in six weeks, that’s a fair assessment,” he drawled.

“Well?” Brock exclaimed.

“Well what?”

“Why didn’t you say anything?!” Brock exclaimed heatedly, hiding his nerves underneath loud words and annoyance.

“Because I had a feeling you’d freak out if I brought it up,” said Jack, sounding perfectly reasonable. His eyes flicked up over the top of his book, taking Brock in for a moment before he put his book on the window ledge with a sigh. He nudged at Lis, who gave him a reproachful look but hopped down from his lap without any protest. She curled up against Althea’s side, covering her eye with her tail. It was the first time Brock noticed the two daemons being overly friendly towards each other. He didn’t have more time to dwell on it though because then Jack was in his space. “Looks like I was right,” he said with a smirk.

“I’m not freaking out,” Brock retorted immediately. Jack just raised an eyebrow. “Ok fine,” Brock relented. “Maybe a little. Whatever. Shut up,” Brock grumbled, crossing his arms protectively across his chest. “I said shut up!”

“I didn’t say anything,” protested Jack, eyes twinkling with mischief. 

“No but you were going to so just…don’t.”

“Okay,” Jack replied evenly but Brock could tell the man was fighting a smile. The standoff continued as Brock kept glaring and Jack did his best to look innocently bland. The silence stretched. Jack scratched his nose and just kept standing there, looking at him blandly. Finally Brock couldn’t take it anymore.

“Ok fine, fine! Say it.”

“The stew’s not gonna be ready for another couple hours. You wanna order Chinese?”

“No, I meant—,” Brock tried.

“I know what you meant,” Jack interrupted. “And we can talk about it for as long as you like. But the way I see it you either want me here or you don’t.” He was so close Brock could see the gold flecks buried amid the green and the hazel. He could see the freckles that dusted the man’s nose and every detail of that ropy scar that wrapped around the edge of Jack’s jaw. Brock still didn’t know the story behind that one but in that moment, he realized that he wished he did. He wanted to know everything about the man standing in front of him.

“You…ah, you wanna go to that Italian deli on the corner for dinner?” He asked around the lump in his throat. He wished he could say different words, but they were lodged firmly in his chest and were refusing to come out.

Jack’s eyes softened. “Is that the one with the mocha cannolis?” He asked, reaching out a hand to slip a finger through Brock’s belt loops. A sharp tug closed the scant inches between them, pressing their chests together.

“Yeah,” Brock breathed.

He swallowed down the bitter insecurity that told him to keep his mouth shut and walk away before he got too invested. Before he got hurt. He slide an arm around Jack’s trim waist. His other hand slide up Jack’s chest. He traced Jack’s jaw, brushing across the scar and across his lips. His fingers tangled in the hair at the nape of Jack’s neck, soft and product free like he always wore it when they were not on mission. And when he pressed his lips to Jack’s; well, it felt like coming home.

***************************

Brock hadn’t been there. When the mission went wrong and Jack was taken, he wasn’t there. When they broke his ribs and ripped out his fingernails; when they pulled molars, put out cigarettes against his rips and beat the bottom of his feet bloody, he wasn’t there. And when Strike had rained hellfire down on their heads, pulling out Jack and the remaining agent, Brock wasn’t fucking there.

Fury had benched him. A bullet graze to the thigh and the man had fucking benched him. And when Brock had stormed into his office and demanded to be part of the rescue team, the man had just slapped conflict of interest paperwork against his chest and said he should have filled these out two years ago.

And now Brock was sitting on a literal bench in a hospital that reeked of bleach, wearing a hole in the sleeve of his sweater because he couldn’t figure out what to do with his hands. That was until Althea wormed her way between his legs, sitting with her back to him so he could “At least put his fidgeting to good use,” as she put it.

He scratched his blunt hairs through her short fur, tracing mindless patterns while he tried to keep his mind blank. He tried not to wallow on what had been done to Jack. The nurse had been professional when she’d listed all the damage because apparently he was Jack’s only emergency contact and therefore treated as family. Which meant he got the list of all the injuries and got to see Jack laying still and pale and hooked up to a dozen machines in the ICU after he got out of surgery. One of his broken ribs had perforated his lung en route to the hospital.

He was there when Jack woke up, disorientated and violent. He fought the oxygen cannula and the heat rate monitors and the IV lines. He shoved a nurse so hard she cracked her head on the adjacent wall. He fought Brock too, eyes glazed and scared. Security came pounding into the room and that just helped to make everything worse. Only Lis jumping on Jack’s chest and shrieking in his face made him stop. He stared at her, eyes wide and chest heaving. He was paying such close attention she must have been talking to him. Book could feel the man’s muscles trembling under his hands. “Let him go,” Althea snapped suddenly, urgency in her voice. “Brock, let him go!”

Brock did as he was told, letting go of the arm he had been holding down against the bed and waving off the security guard who had done the same to Jack’s other side. Jack flinched away from both of them, arms coming up protectively around Lis. His eyes flicked around the room, fight or flight mode still firmly engaged. Only the fox on his chest seemed to be keeping him in the bed. Finally they settled on Brock, recognition light a spark behind the panic.

“‘M sorry,” he rasped, voice rough from the intubation.

“It’s okay,” Brock rushed to assure him, sending a stern glare towards the security who backed off. “You’re okay. We’re all okay.” Even the nurse, who most definitely had a concussion, managed a weak smile and waved off Jack’s apology as another nurse helped her out.

Now it was just the two of them. Well, four. Althea had moved to the door after the others left, taking up a guard position beside it. Lis was now lying down, tucked against Jack’s side with her head on his chest. He had both his hands buried in her fur like she might disappear if he let her go. They’d kept her in a cage, Jack would tell him later. Close enough to see but not close enough to touch.

Jack didn’t seem all that keen to talk, or even look at him. Brock didn’t push it. He just grabbed a chair and placed it beside Jack’s bed. He could see Jack tense as he sat down and that made something deep in his chest twist painfully. He sat there quietly until Jack fell asleep. Brock was drifting off himself when a soft whine caught his attention.

Althea pawed at his leg with another whine, eyes wide and silently pleading. He raised an eyebrow but she was staying stubbornly silent. With a sigh he kicked his boots up onto the edge of the bed and patted his thighs. She sprang into his lap easily but he still winced as she settled. She wasn’t a particularly small daemon. After a moment of adjustment, she was curled in his lap with her head pressed up against his chest. She hadn’t done this since she was a puppy. It was soothing, just scratching her ears and listening to Jack breathe.

He woke up to Althea leaping out of his lap and Jack having what looked like a panic attack. He was sitting bolt up in bed, hands flexing in his daemon’s fur. His eyes were blank and staring and his breath was hitching and sputtering. Lis was chittering and chirping in distress, nosing her snout up against Jack’s neck but it didn’t seem to be breaking whatever headspace the man was trapped in.

“Jack,” he called softly. The younger man’s eyes snapped to his, wide and glassy. “Hey, easy,” Brock said soothingly as he leaned forward. “You’re safe. You’re stateside. You’re home and we got you.”

“Brock?” Jack breathed.

“Yeah, I’m right here,” Brock promised.

“I…,” Jack fumbled, voice thick around the swelling from having two molars pulled. “I want to go home,” he said in a very small voice.

“I know sweetheart,” Brock soothed, the endearment slipping from his tongue unconsciously. “But you just had major surgery. They need to monitor you for a couple more days at least. Hey, hey,” he added as he saw Jack’s hands starting to shake again. He moved slowly to sit on the edge of the bed. Jack tensed, shoulders ratcheting tight, but he didn’t flinch away so Brock called it a small win. “I’m right here. I got your back. No one is gonna get near you unless you want it. Althea and I won’t let ‘em and that’s if there’s anything left of them after Lis has gotten through with them.

“Damn right,” an unfamiliar voice, sharp and clear, seemed to echo through the quiet room. Brock didn’t have much time to dwell on the fact the fox daemon had suddenly decided to allow him to hear her, speak because now Jack’s entire body was trembling and his eyes were close to overflowing.

Brock shifted until he was sitting next to Jack but facing him. He sat so his hip was pressed against Jack’s thigh but he didn’t try and touch him otherwise. Finally over-bright green eyes met his. “They didn’t want anything,” Jack whispered roughly. “They’d got what they wanted from the raid. They were just bored an’ me ’n Vasquez…we were just sport. They never asked us a fuckin’ thing.”

And Brock knew that made it worse. If they were asking questions, it meant you had something they wanted. They needed you and as long as that was true, you had something to hold onto. As fucked up as it sounded, you had control, regardless of who was in chains. If you didn’t have that, you weren’t being hurt for a reason. You were just a plaything and that was so much worse.

Brock placed his hand lightly on Jack’s forearm, mindful of the IV line. He had barely touched the man before Jack was crumpling into his arms. His forehead pressed against Brock’s shoulder. A hand latched onto the front of his shirt, twisting the fabric. Lis had wiggled out of Jack’s lap to avoid being crushed but didn’t go far, instead moving to press up against her human’s other side. Brock brought his arms up around Jack’s shoulders and held him gently. He soothed his fingers through Jack’s hair, traced up and down his spine. All the while he murmured comforting nonsense until the tension bled from the man’s shoulders and Jack finally relaxed into his arms.

***************************

“Juice?”

“Sure.”

“You sleep okay last night?”

“I’m fine.”

“Jack—.”

“I said I’m fine. Don’t worry about it.”

***************************

“It was a car accident,” Jack said softly into the darkness.

Brock rolled over, finding the bigger man’s silhouette barely visible against the glow of the street lamps. Jack was lying on his back, his hand cushioned under his head as he stared up at the ceiling. Even in the dim light, Brock could see the jaw muscles flexing. “I was eighteen. Driving home on a rainy night,” continued Jack in a soft voice that Brock had never heard the big manuse before. “Another car took a corner too fast. Driver was drunk, hit us head on. Caved in half my face. I have seventeen titanium plates holding my face together.”

Brock surpassed a shiver as Jack trailed off. The man’s body was still radiating tension so he had a feeling this wasn’t the end of the story. It took a bit for Jack to start talking again and when he did, the air felt like it was sucked out of the room. “My sister was in the car with me. She didn’t make it,” added Jack quietly. “So yeah, that’s how I got my scar.”

Brock reached across and wrapped his hand around Jack’s bicep and squeezed gently. The man barely seemed to react. He just kept staring at the ceiling, breathing very deliberately. “Thanks for telling me,” Brock said softly.

Jack shrugged. “It’s fine,” he muttered. “Makes going through airport security a bitch though. Sets the metal detectors off every time,” he added with a bitter chuckle. For the first time, it was Brock seeing through Jack’s bullshit deflection instead of the other way around. He stifled a sigh, squeezing the younger man’s arm again. Jack’s breath hitched a little, his throat bobbing as he swallowed. A moment later, a big hand covered Brock’s and squeezed back.

***************************

“Hail Hydra,” Pierce murmured on the way out from their briefing. Until that moment Brock hadn’t known, not about the senator and not about Jack. The tall man just raised an eyebrow in his direction but said nothing. He didn’t say anything on the whole ride back to their apartment. He made dinner quietly while Brock showers and they ate dinner in silence. The entire time Brock was waiting for the other shoe to drop. There was something coming, he could feel it.

That something came about an hour after Brock finished the dishes. He and Jack were sitting in the living room. Jack was at one end of the couch, Brock at the other. Jack had a book in hand that he was pretending to read. The tv was on and Brock was pretending to watch it. Jack gave up the pretence first. “Why’d you join up?”

Brock shrugged, dodging the question. “Got be outta the shit hole town I grew up in when I didn’t have any money or college prospects.”

“I wasn’t talking about the military and you know it,” said Jack, cutting him off. Brock bite back a sigh with a grimace. So much for that stall. Jack was staring at him, he could feel it. The book hit the coffee table with a soft thump. Brock didn’t move as Jack reached across him to grab the remote. The TV turned off a moment later and the remote followed the book onto the coffee table with a clatter. “Was it money?” The man asked insistently. “Was it because you believed in their doctrine, what?”

Why did this feel like a test? Everything was a test with Hydra. And if Jack turned out to just be another test….

“Will you say something?”

“What do you want me to say?” Brock replied softly.

Jack didn’t say anything. He just looked at him and didn’t say a word. He was tense. Brock could see it in the set of his shoulders. What did he have to be nervous about? Unless this was a test, one Brock was about to fail. He could feel his heart pounding in his chest. It felt like it was going to crack a rib or something it was beating so hard.

“Don’t be an idiot,” Althea snapped suddenly. His head whipped around at the same time as Jack’s and they stared at their daemons, sitting side by side next to the window watching them. “You can trust him,” she added, albeit a little more gently than her original outburst. “You have to trust him.”

Brock’s eyes flicked back to Jack, who was still looking at Lis with that little crease between his eyebrows that meant she was talking to him. “I wanted to make a difference,” he said in a rush, like if he spoke slower he’d loose his nerve. He almost did when Jack looked back up at him with a guardedness to his eyes that Brock’s never send directed at him before. “I walked away from eight years in the Marines with nothing to show for it. Nothing we did over there seemed to make a damn difference. But Hydra…they were going to change the world.” Brock swallowed, fumbling for the right words. “And I agree with a lot of the things they stand for but….” He broke off, chewing on his lip. He really did believe in a lot of the things they wanted to accomplish. The things they were doing to do and build; to make better and safer. It was just the longer he worked behind the scenes for them, the more he wasn’t sure if those propaganda agendas actually aligned with what the people pulling the strings wanted. “Doesn’t matter either way,” he sighed. “We’re in too deep for second thoughts now.”

“Would you ever do it?” Jack asked quietly.

“What, leave?” Brock snorted rudely. “You don’t leave Hydra, Jack. You know that.”

“Yeah,” murmured Jack darkly. “Yeah, I do.”

“So what’re you askin’ dumb questions like that for?” He snapped.

Jack just gave him this look that Brock couldn’t begin to understand. Then Jack’s hand was grabbing the front of his shirt and dragging him into a kiss that was more teeth than lips and tasted desperate. “Marry me,” Jack murmured against his lips and something in Brock’s chest splintered.

“Now that’s an even dumber question,” whispered Brock. 

“Marry me anyways,” replied Jack and how could Brock refuse a proposal like that.

***************************

“And do you, Jack Nicolas Rollins—.”

“I do.”

“You’re supposed to let her finish, dumbass.”

The officiant professionally hid a smile but her eyes were twinkling. And in that moment, Brock didn’t care that they were in the middle of nowhere at some tiny town hall. He didn’t care that he was in ripped jeans and Jack was in a t-shirt with a faded logo for a boxing gym neither of them ever had held membership at. He didn’t care that he had butterfly bandages holding his eyebrow closed and the cut on Jack’s lip kept reopening whenever he smiled. He didn’t care that the only people with them were the lady from the front desk and the on-staff photographer.

“I now pronounce you joined in matrimony. You may kiss—.”

Once again Jack didn’t let the woman finish. His lips tasted like copper. The hand on Brock’s lower back was just shy of painful, sitting right atop a neat row of stitches that traced the side of his spine. Jack hissed against the kiss as Brock’s hand gripped too hard against the bruises left over from a dislocated shoulder. But the kiss was gentle and so was the hand cupped against his cheek. Brock wouldn’t have changed a single detail.

***************************

Brock’s eyes snapped open to a thunderous explosion of gunshots. It took him two quick breaths to convince his mind that he wasn’t in a firefight. It took four more to realize that he was lying in bed in his and Jack’s apartment and it took seven to convince his muscles to unlock their death grip on his bones.

After that he rolled over, raking a shaky hand through his sweaty hair. He gently pushed Althea back, who had been desperately trying to wiggle her way into his lap since he woke up. “I’m fine,” he rasped, swallowing dryly against the sandpaper feeling of his throat. She whined at him, telling him without words that she knew he was lying, but she didn’t push him. She just leaned her weight against his side, providing him with something solid to hold onto.

Jack wasn’t home and Brock was thankful for it. Sometimes he found it difficult to deal with the other man seeing this side of him. Seeing the weakness that lingered close to Brock’s core and only raised its ugly head in the middle of the night. So he leaned against Althea and struggled to stop his hands from trembling.

Jack found him three hours later, with his skin turned cherry red from the heat of the shower and Althea pawing worriedly at the bathroom door. Brock just planted his hands on the damp tiles and ignored him. To his credit, Jack didn’t say a thing, bless him. He just turned the water a little cooler before stripping down and getting in himself.Brock could feel the heat of the bigger man radiating against his skin, turned over sensitive from the near scalding water. Jack gave him a scant inch of space, waiting for him to create the contact. Brock closed his eyes and let his head fall between his arms. The water was soothing as it cascaded against his neck.

“Tilt your head back,” murmured Jack in a gentle rumble.

Brock huffed but he did it anyways. Hands raked through his hair, blunt fingers massaging against his scalp. It was nice for a moment but quickly turned annoying. The touch made him feel like he was crawling inside his own skin. Before he could say anything though, the hands disappeared. He felt Jack take a step back and his teeth ground together in frustration. He hated it when Jack treated him with kid gloves and he hated that he was such an open book to the younger man.

He scrubbed the soap from his hair furiously and pushed past Jack’s bulk to hop out of the shower. He didn’t even bother to dry off. He just threw on his old sweat damp clothes and stalked out into the kitchen. The bedroom door slammed behind him, echoing sharply in the still apartment. Althea stuck close to his heels as he put on water to boil. He knew he was too wound up for coffee and it would only make him feel worse.

The microwave read two in the morning. Brock rubbed his eyes. He was tired. His whole body ached and his eyes felt gritty but his head was wired. He heard the shower turn off, followed by soft sounds of movements. Then the bedroom light clicked off. Part of Brock was glad Jack had just went to bed. He wasn’t going to pester Brock further. Yet another part of him wished that he would. It was a small part but it was still there, nagging under his ribs.

He drank the tea. The bedroom light stayed off.

It was nearly five in the morning by the time Brock was fighting to keep his eyes. The pre dawn light was beginning to send a soft glow about the apartment. He eyed the couch but Althea got between it and him with warning huff. She butted her head against the back of his knee, shoving him towards the closed bedroom door.

He opened the door quietly as to not wake Jack but it needn’t have bothered. The younger man was wide awake, reading something on a tablet. The light reflected off his face, contrasting sharply with the angles of his face. His eyes flicked up to Brock briefly, clocking him standing in the doorway. Jack set the tablet aside, clicking it off and throwing his face into shadow. It was darker in here. The curtains were closed and kept the dawn at bay.Althea pushed past Brock’s legs and headed over to the chair in the corner where Lis had made her bed. She curled up on the plush bed by the foot of it, yawned, and closed her eyes. Brock swallowed thickly. He wished it was as simple for him.

Stiff legs took him to the bed. Jack still didn’t say anything. He just flattened out his pillows and lay down. Brock could feel eyes on him as he stripped out of the sweat tacky shirt and sweats and crawled into bed. He lay flat on his back and traced the cracks that traced the plaster along the ceiling with his eyes. Finally, when his eyes were heavy and his body was moments from sleep, he rolled over into waiting arms. 

***************************

“Jack!”

“What?”

“….”

“What’s wrong?”

“Uhhhh,” Brock replied intelligently, staring down at the dark ball of fur that had just leaped up into his lap. His heart was lodged in his throat, refusing to come back down. He had his hands in the air, scared he might accidentally touch her. “What…what do I do?” He stammered in a panicky voice as Jack stuck his head out of the bedroom door.

“Oh, is that it?”

“What do you mean, is that it?” Brock cried, staring as Lis folded herself into a tight ball. She gave him a glance from a single blue eye before tucking her nose against her flank and looking for all intents and purposes, asleep. “What do I do?!”

“She likes it when you scratch her behind her ears,” said Jack simply as if his daemon hadn’t just crawled up into the lap of another man. Brock could only stare. This was beyond a breach of etiquette. You didn’t just pet another man’s daemon. It was unthinkable. It was practically illegal.

“You think too much,” Althea drawled sleepily from her spot over by the fireplace just as Jack called out “Don’t overthink it,” as he ducked back into the bedroom with a smirk. Brock looked down at the knot of silky fur with more suspicion than he’d looked at some unidentified incendiary devices in his career.

Carefully he reached out and brushed his fingertips against the fur on the back of the fox’s neck. The hair raised at the touch, Lis squirming a little. Brock would definitely deny the hitch in his breath at the reaction to his dying grave. When lightening didn’t decent to strike him down and he didn’t spontaneously burst into flames and Lis didn’t rise up from his lap to scratch his eyes out, he managed to relax a little.Tentatively he scratched her behind the ear, just as Jack had told him. She titled her head further into his hand, pressing her head firmly into his palm. Little sparks tingled across his fingers and up his arm, like the static you got after dragging your feet across the carpet and then touching metal. Not unpleasant exactly. Just strange.

Something warm bloomed under Brock’s ribs and refused to come out. He didn’t know how long he sat there, scratching patterns through the thick dark fur. It was long enough that Jack came out freshly showered and tucked himself onto the other end of the couch with a book and a soft smile. Then Althea decided she didn’t want to be left out and hopped up onto the couch too. She curled her lanky body into the small space between them, her body laying atop Brock’s feet and her muzzle resting on Jack’s shin.The look of wonder that flittered across Jack’s face when he carefully ran his fingers down Althea’s spine was worth every single hardship Brock had ever faced to bring him to this place.

***************************

“Jack, wait!”

The bigger man didn’t give any indication that he’d heard him. He strode down the walk to the little bungalow they’d rented for their anniversary vacation and stormed inside, Lis a slip of a shadow on his heels. “Will you just—jesus christ,” Brock huffed as he trotted after the younger man.He found Jack in the kitchen, stabbing at the coffee maker like it had insulted his mother. “Jack, come on, talk to me for fucks sake. I don’t—.” His words were cut off by Jack slamming the coffee pot down on the counter so hard he was surprised it didn’t shatter.

“Why did you marry me?” Jack bit out.

Brock blinked. “I…sorry, what?”

“Why did you marry me?” He repeated, jaw tight and eyes blazing.

“What kinda question is that?” Brock spluttered.

Jack’s breath hissed through his nose as he tugged the ring from his finger. “If this bothers you so much, then take it back,” he snarled, slamming the ring down onto the counter between them.

Brock blinked. “That’s what you’re upset about?” He spluttered. Jack just stared at him, stony and silent so Brock figured he hit the nail on the head. “The fuck, Jack. Seriously?” The younger man raised an eyebrow, jaw tight. “I’m not ashamed of you, I—.”

“Coulda fooled me,” interrupted Jack in a deadpan.

“Don’t be an ass,” he retorted. “You know better, Jack. You know why we can’t—.”

“We’re in the middle of fucking nowhere,” Jack practically snarled. “We came here because we wouldn’t have to hide here.”

“We’ll always have to hide,” Brock snapped, temper finally bubbling over. “The fact that Don’t Ask was repealed last year doesn’t mean shit. It doesn’t matter that we’re in the private sector. It doesn’t matter that we have a President preaching equal rights for the fags.”

“Don’t use that word,” interrupted Jack, his tone deadly quiet. It was a warning but Brock didn’t pay attention to it.

“What, fag?” Brock scoffed. “How the fuck did you survive basic if you get your panties in a twist over a fucking slang word?”

“I’m not doing this with you again,” Jack muttered and stalked out of the kitchen without another word. Brock clenched his fists against the counter and squashed the urge to swipe the coffee pot across the room. God, Jack could be so frustrating and temperamental. You wanted to survive, you had to have a thick skin and Jack could be such a fairy—

“Fuck,” Brock breathed.

They’d talked about this. Jack had been so patient with getting past all the walls and breaking down the stereotypes of Brock’s conservative upbringing. The hurtful slang had just been the tip of the iceberg in regards to all the fucked up repressions he had. And then as soon as he got angry and, if he was being honest with himself scared, he backslid right into his old mindset.

He felt eyes on him and glanced down to see Althea glaring at him from the hallway. She’d kept her distance all the way home and was doing it again, holding her silence like before. “Yeah, I know I fucked up. Don’t need you around to remind me,” he snapped. Reproach hit him like a brick wall as Althea curled her lip and growled a warning. He swallowed a retort and stalked after Jack.

Brock found him on the beach. They’d booked this spot mostly for the reason that it butted up against a private cove that was only accessible by boat or by the staircase that wound down the cliff directly from their cabin. Jack was sitting in a little outcropping of trees, fingers tracing patterns in the white sand while Lis lay draped across his shoulders like a cat. She glared at him, lip curling silently and only calmed when Jack reached up and gave her ear a tug.

“Lemme guess. You’re sorry,” drawled Jack, not bothering to even turn around to look at him.“You know Brock, I’m getting really tired of having this same conversations.” Brock swallowed thickly, feeling his throat tighten. “I’ll come start dinner in a bit,” Jack said and wasn’t that Jack in a nutshell. Walking away from him one minute and yet coming back to make him dinner because he knew all Brock could cook was coffee. He was so giving and Brock did nothing but throw it back in his face. So instead of insulting Jack further, he reached behind his neck and pulled the long chain that held his dog tags over his neck. He dropped the tags in the sand beside Jack and left.

The sun was setting by the time Jack climbed the stairs back up to the cabin. Brock was crosslegged on one of the lounge chairs, twirling Jack’s wedding band between his fingers. His dog tags were tossed in front of him with a clink. “Why didn’t you tell me you were wearing it?” Jack asked, voice carefully neutral.

Brock swallowed, staring down at the silver band that was threaded through the same chain as his tags. The matching twin to the one in his hands, only slightly smaller. He’d hung it on there less than a month after they’d tied the knot. “I don’t know,” he replied in a small voice. He felt more than heard Jack sigh and then grey shorts came into his peripheral as Jack sat on the end of the lounger. “I’m trying,” he whispered.

“I know,” replied Jack, equally as soft.

“And I know it isn’t enough,” he added.

A large hand covered his, stilling the nervous twirling he’d been doing with Jack’s ring. He watched as Jack’s thumb brushed back and forth across his knuckles. “Brock.”

“I’m not ashamed of you,” he interrupted.

“I know that—.”

“Will you lemme finish a fuckin’ sentence?” He snapped. Jack’s hand went still against his but didn’t withdraw. “I’m not ashamed,” he said again. “But sometimes you scare the shit outta me.” He took a breath, blinking back against the stinging that pricked at the corners of his eyes. “I don’t know how to be…I can’t just…fuck,” he spat, extracting a hand to pinch them across his eyes harshly. Jack just squeezed his hand and gave him the space to find the words. “I’m sorry I can’t be what you want,” was what he settled on and Jack’s reaction was instant.

“Don't you dare,” Jack croaked. Brock’s eyes snapped up, meeting the big man’s chagrined eyes. “I’m sorry too,” he confessed. “I was an ass and I overreacted. I should have actually talked to you and instead I got angry and lashed out. That wasn’t fair to you and I’m sorry.”

“How about we both agree to be less of an ass to each other?” Brock asked. He scrubbed his nose on his sleeve because talking about feelings made him itchy and he said just that. Jack answering chuckle, albeit a little wet sounding, was a beautiful sound. Brock threaded his fingers through the younger man’s fingers. He flipped their hands over and carefully slid Jack’s ring back onto his finger. “I love you, you know that right?” He asked those hands, covered in scars and burns. He’d seen those hands snap a grown man’s neck but they were always so very gentle whenever they touched him.

Like now, as one of those hands detangled from his and slid under his chin to raise his eyes up. Green eyes flecked with hazel met his, soft and gentle. “I never doubted it,” whispered Jack, as his thumb brushed across Brock’s bottom lip. “You are all that I could ever want and more.”Brock pressed his forehead against Jack’s, closing his eyes and just breathing. Neither of them saw Althea walk quietly onto the deck and lie down by the door, nor did they see Lis trot up the stairs and curl up against Althea’s side.

***************************

Brock had always expected Captain American’s daemon to be a bald eagle or some shit. Something truly patriotic like that. Or maybe a lion. Something big and strong to match his strength and reputation as a fighter. The silky coated Irish Setter that trotted along by his heels when the man had stepped into Brock’s office and introduced himself was not what the Strike commander was expecting at all. It somehow made the man more human than legend and that wasn’t helpful at all.

It was easy enough to kill the legend. The man was a different story.

***************************

The Winter Soldier didn’t have a daemon.

Brock wouldn’t have believed it if he hadn’t seen it himself. If he hadn’t seen the Asset stripped down to his skivvies he would have assumed that whatever the man’s daemon was, it was small. Small enough to hide underneath hair or behind a collar or inside a pocket. But he’d seen the man without any of his gear and there wasn’t any time creature hidden inside it. And when they’d shoved him in the chair…

“You saw it Jack,” he hissed later that night once they were safely home. Jack just sighed from where he was leaning up against the kitchen counter.

“I don’t know what I saw."

“Don’t bullshit me,” Brock snarled. “You were there when they shoved him in that fucking chair.”

“I don’t know what I saw,” Jack repeated, over exaggerating his annunciation. “And neither do you.”

“I know Dust when I see it,” Brock interrupted, ignoring the way the younger man flinched at the mere mention of the word. “And it was pouring out of him in clouds once they turned that fucking machine on. There’s a reason we were all slapped with gag orders before being allowed to work with the Asset. They split him from his daemon, Jack. That is majorly fucked up.”

“What you’re saying is heresy,” Jack cautioned in a quiet tone.

“Since when have you been a Purist?” Brock sneered.

Jack huffed an irritated sigh. “I’m not,” he bit out through gritted teeth. “You know I’m not but there’s a fine line between thinking something is wrong and walking up to the Magistrate and offering them my head on a fucking platter.”

“I’m not suggesting—,”

“No, but you’re thinking,” Jack interrupted, shoving off the counter and closing the distance between them. “Don’t forget, I know you,” the taller man huffed, flicking his fingers solidly against the side of Brock’s skull. “So what are you thinking?”

“I’m not thinking anything,” protested Brock. He really wasn’t. It was too big of a risk and he wasn’t going to put Jack in the line of fire like that. Even if they got Rogers to believe them and he didn’t crucify them immediately, Hydra would scrub them away. They might be able to avoid the cleanup crew for what, a couple months. But Hydra would catch them eventually. They always did. There was nowhere to run. Nowhere to hide. Too many heads. “It’s just really fucked up,” he said.

“Yeah,” Jack agreed.

***************************

Brock couldn’t sleep and when he rolled over in another burst of restlessness, he came face to face with a pair of hazel green eyes just as wide awake as he was.

***************************

“Here’s to the end of the world as we know it,” drawled Brock as he drunkenly raised his tumbler towards the ceiling. Jack didn’t reply, eyes slightly glazed and lips twisted morosely. Althea and Lis had both retreated into the living room, letting their humans drink themselves into a stupor in bed with a bottle of whiskey between them.

They’d just received their orders.

***************************

Orders were orders.

Soldiers didn’t question orders. They followed them because when you didn’t, your team usually ended up dead. And his team would end up dead. Jack would end up dead because Brock had looked Pierce dead in the eye after he' watched the Asset be shoved back in the chair and had seen what the man really was underneath the politician's bland smile. 

He still remembered with perfect clarify what Pierce had said to him after his first mission with Winter. He could still feel the man’s fingers digging into his bicep as he was told that if there was even a rumour of disloyalty from within Strike, he’d shove each member of his team into that chair and burn them out from the inside until there was nothing left. That he’d make Brock watch. And that he’d start with Rollins.

So if his orders were to put a bullet between Steve Rogers’ eyes then that was what he was going to do. Yet he could barely stifle the sigh of relief when he ordered the trunk doors opened and saw there was nothing left in the back but two unconscious Strike agents and a smoking hole through the undercarriage.

***************************

They didn’t make any promises. They knew the other would be careful but they were also practical about it. They’d both been soldiers for too long. They knew that sometimes it didn’t matter how careful you were. They didn’t say goodbye either. That would have just been tempting fate.

Their morning routine was the same; stretch, coffee, breakfast. The only deviation was that they shared a shower, using the time to just be around each other. Hands wandered over muscles and traced scars like they were trying to memorize each other. Brock aimlessly drew constellations in the freckles across Jack’s upper back as the other man shaved.

The ride to work was spent in silence with Lis draped over Jack’s shoulders like a shawl and Althea’s head pressed on top of Brock’s shoulder as he drove. Usually they drove in separately, to keep up the illusion but today neither of them gave a fuck about appearances.

Brock drove with his hand on the gear shift and Jack’s hand on his wrist, thumbing patterns across his pulse point.

***************************

Brock woke up pinned between a desk and a slab of concrete, Althea’s body underneath him. It took them six hours to find and free him. It took another twenty-six before handcuffs trapped him to the hospital bed where he was being treated for burns and broken bones. Twelve minutes after that he was told he was under arrest for treason. Twenty-two days before the hospital discharged him into custody. 

It was another week after that when he was told Jack was dead.

He’d found out because he said he’d only agreed to a deal if they told him where his team was being held. Out of thirty-five men and women on Strike who had been on sight, twelve had survived. Jack hadn’t been one of them. They didn’t even have a body but he’d been in the Council Room when the building came down. Nobody could have survived that. Not even some one as stubborn as Jack. 

He reneged on the deal.

They kept at him but no combination of bribes or threats could make him say another word. After three weeks they gave up. He had a trial date but it wasn’t for a year and a half so he was remanded to the Raft. He wondered if his trial would ever happen or if he’d just be left in limbo. He wouldn’t be surprised if it was option number two.

He didn’t see anyone from his teams, just prisoners he’d helped put there. They jeered through their glass cages and promised to rip him apart if they ever got their hands on him. Brock ignored them. He still hadn’t said a word since that interview three months ago. His wounds healed. He was left with half his face streamed with white lines and pockmarks and one ear slightly melted to the skin behind it. There were more hidden under his jumpsuit, lines crisscrossing lines where the newer injuries met a lifetime of old ones. He stretched and kept in shape because there wasn’t anything else left to do besides grieve for the past.

***************************

"I miss him too." 

His eyes burned when Althea finally crawled out from under the bed and pressed herself against his chest. He held her close, burying his face in her scruff so the cameras couldn't see his tears.

***************************

There was no warning. One minute he was lying on his cot, Althea sprawled across his chest, and the next the door to his cell was being opened. Althea leapt from his chest and landed on the floor with a growl. Brock sighed and closed his eyes. They never opened the cells. He swung his legs over the edge and stood, finally looking up to the figure standing in the doorway. He was tall, almost a full head taller then Brock. Broad shoulders, a long nose had seen the business end of a fist more than once, and a daemon that looked like a shadow clinging to his heels.

“J-Jack?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! I hope you enjoyed it! I left it with a ? on chapters because I had a follow up idea as this ended in a cliffhanger. Let me know if you want me to continue this! Feedback is my fairy dust! xx
> 
> Fun Tidbit: Althea is of Greek origin meaning "to heal/with healing powers." Lis means "fox" in Polish


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